


oh, wonder

by markohmark



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Dreamsharing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markohmark/pseuds/markohmark
Summary: “This isn’t a normal job, is it?” Renjun asks, finally.Jaemin laughs, loud and abrupt, and it’s nothing like the manicured perfection of his default smile. It sounds too ugly to be facetious.“What do you think?” Jaemin replies. A non-answer for a non-question.





	oh, wonder

**Author's Note:**

> this might be a bit inaccurate to the original movie, but i hope everything still makes sense! thank you vy for being an amazing beta <3

It’s Sicheng that gets him the job, actually. Renjun has never really thought much of the bored-looking TA in his architecture classes, but after the finals, on the last day before the summer break, Sicheng beckons him to his office. He mentions something about a _job offer_ , hushed behind a closed door. There’s something about the way he talks about it, all confidential and urgent, that makes Renjun keep it a secret from Xiaojun when he heads for the interview.

His roommate doesn’t see him again until months have passed, when Renjun stumbles back up those seven flights of stairs, giddy with relief and wondering if everything that had happened was _real_. And Xiaojun takes one look at him, at his rosy flushed cheeks and his bright eyes, and asks: _What the hell did you do for the past three months?_

What did Renjun _do_? Physically, nearly nothing. But his body still has phantom aches, and he feels a year older. It’s hard to look at Xiaojun and make up some lie, even more difficult to settle back into the rhythm of his mundane life.

If Renjun could tell Xiaojun _everything_ —or anything, really, he’d start with this:

 

 

 

 

 

He meets Mark first. Renjun doesn’t know his name, initially, just takes in his unironically ugly plaid shirt and his sharp eyes and thinks: _either this guy is a genius or a complete fucker_. Mark Lee turns out to be both of these things.

As far as job interviews go, it’s nothing like the internships Renjun has applied to before. There are no questions on his aptitude, on the type of experience he’s had in the past regarding architecture. Mark just glances over Renjun’s resume perfunctorily before turning it over and scribbling something on it and pushing it back to him.

“Don’t you need this?” Renjun asks, thumb smoothing down an edge. He glances down at the note— _2:30, the warehouse on 9 rue newlane_ —scrawled in abysmal chicken-scratch.

Mark bites down a smile as he shakes his head. “Consider this to be your next round of interviews, so to speak.”

Renjun pauses for a second, trying to remember if he’s ever been on this street before. He’s been living here for the past two years, ever since freshman year of college, and the name _Newlane_ still doesn’t ring a bell.

Everything about this seems strange, all the way down to Mark’s slightly off-kilter smile and parabolic eyebrows. Renjun appreciates two things above all: mystery and symmetry

And, so, he’s too curious to refuse the offer.

“I’ll be there,” Renjun promises, reaching out for a handshake.

Mark’s hand has a tremor running through it as if his whole arm is the earth, muscles shifting like tectonic plates. It’s unnerving.

“Thank you,” Mark replies. His eyes are sharp, almost bird-like, as Renjun wipes his hand on the fabric of his slacks. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

 

 

 

 

This is when Jaemin comes in; it also happens to be the point at which things cease to make any sense. Whether or not these two things are related, Renjun is still unsure.

But anyway: as soon as he steps foot inside the warehouse, there’s a gun pointed at him. The smile behind it is twice as lethal.

“What the _fuck_?” Renjun’s hands shake, despite himself, as he raises them up in surrender. He forces deep breaths, the same sort of slow in-out he had perfected during all those years in the school choir. It works about as well as one would think, considering that he could possibly _die_ —

“What the fuck?” Jaemin mimics him, smile widening. He could be the poster boy for an orthodontist with those bright white teeth, but his eyes are unfathomable and cold. “I could say the same to you. Who the _fuck_ are you?”

“Ren-Renjun Huang. I’m here for a job interview,” Renjun says. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate, as he reaches into the pocket of his trench coat to dig out his crumpled-up resume. “Mark told me to come here.” He holds out the scrap of paper, the address still visible in Mark’s distinctive handwriting.

Jaemin lowers his gun, after that, quickly snatching the slip of paper from Renjun’s hands. “Oh, so _you’re_ the new architect.” He looks over at Renjun again, from his lips down to his boots, a silent appraisal more than anything else. “I’ll show you upstairs, then.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Jaemin calls over his shoulder as they trudge up several flights of stairs. “Mark didn’t tell me that you’d be coming, and, well—” he chuckles to himself, almost sheepish— “I guess I’m a bit paranoid, nowadays.”

Renjun shrugs. He isn’t sure what kind of apology could compensate for that scare. He’s even less certain of what type of job position, save for assassin or government spy, that would require such constant vigilance.

Jaemin finally stops at the top floor, an airy loft with a high cement ceiling. Everything’s within plain sight of each other, and Renjun quickly makes out the row of beds, more like hospital cots than anything else.

“Hey, catch,” Jaemin says, and he chucks a pen at Renjun so fast that it nearly hits his chest.  
Renjun grabs at it just in time, cradling the hefty weight between his middle and ring fingers.

“Nice reflexes,” Jaemin says, appreciative. “Damn, I like you already.”

Renjun can’t say that he feels the same. He doesn’t bother to respond.

“You need to sign these forms,” Jaemin continues, handing over a thick stack of papers. “Just the standard non-disclosure agreements and such, nothing too out of the ordinary.”

Renjun’s spent a maximum of ten minutes with Jaemin and already knows to not trust a single word from his mouth. He takes his own time reading through it, a warring sense of dread and fascination growing exponentially with every passing minute.

In the end, Renjun does end up signing off to the NDA, unhesitant as he initials every page.

“No questions?” Jaemin asks, watching as Renjun flips through the forms. “Most people have a couple, y’know.”

Renjun pauses when he reaches the last page, carefully writing the date on the final line.

“This isn’t a normal job, is it?” Renjun asks, finally. He slides the forms back to Jaemin, reminded of the way Mark had done the same to him so recently.

Jaemin laughs, loud and abrupt, and it’s nothing like the manicured perfection of his default smile. It sounds too ugly to be facetious.

“What do you think?” Jaemin replies. A non-answer for a non-question.

 

 

 

 

 

“Draw a maze that can be solved in two minutes.” Mark hands the notebook over to Renjun, careful. They’re standing on a balcony overlooking the city, and the sun is on the cusp of setting in the horizon, a lazy orange yolk.

Renjun sketches it out, straight lines on straight lines. It’s easy to lay it out in his head, like a series of boring office dividers to be taken apart and put back together. If there’s one thing Renjun can do, it’s partitioning space.

Mark solves it in thirty seconds. He bites down on his lower lip as he hands the notebook back to Renjun. “Try again.”

Mark is more than just _sharp_ , Renjun’s beginning to realize. He’s got all the finesse of a diamond-edged saw; he can plow through any _difficult_ maze that Renjun creates.

Then what could stall him, slow Mark down?

Renjun remembers racing up to the apartment with Xiaojun, the two of them bent over in laughter, his roommate tugging onto the sleeve of his sweater for support. _Stop_ , Xiaojun had said, _wait a minute—_

Renjun draws a spiral. A straightforward path, but a long one. Even the easiest journeys can become tiring with too much exertion.

It takes Mark a whole minute to drag his pen over the surface of the paper.

“Very well,” he says finally. “Consider yourself hired.” This time he’s the one to reach out and shake Renjun’s hand.

It feels like nothing. Then Mark keeps his hand there, wrapped around Renjun’s wrist in that numbing grip—that grip that _doesn’t_ feel at all, whatsoever—and then it burns, it scalds his skin worse than accidentally spilling boiling water on himself, it _kills_ —

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s breathing. Shaky little breaths, like fluttering bird wings, but he feels them whistle from his mouth regardless. Next, he’s aware of his vision. He sees the orange from the sun beaming down on his eyelids, blinking his eyes open gradually.

Sound comes last, pouring in a deafening wave. Jaemin’s wry tone, and then over that, Mark’s indignance:

“Are you _sure_ you gave the right dose?” Mark asks. “Fucking hell, man, he’s been out for nearly five minutes extra—”

“He’s fine,” Jaemin cuts in smoothly, striding over to where Renjun lies on a cot. “See, he’s awake.”

“What—did we have our interview yet?” Renjun asks, struggling to sit up in the cot. Jaemin tugs him up half-way before Renjun shakes off his grip. “Why am I on the bed?”

Jaemin hides a smile behind the cupped palm of his hand. “This is kind of endearing, not gonna lie.”

Renjun frowns in reply, then turns his body very deliberately to face Mark. “Explain.”

Mark sighs. “Jaemin, you aren’t helping,” he says. “Go make yourself busy.”

Jaemin pouts, crossing his arms, and the sight of it is so startling that Renjun laughs despite himself. “Jeno’s still out,” he says, taking a seat on the closest table and kicking his legs out in front of him. “I’m bored.”

Mark shakes his head, resigned, but Renjun can see the amusement lighting up his eyes. “Whatever, just ignore him.”

Renjun raises his eyebrows, leaning forward. “I’ll try my best.”

“How long did you think the interview was?” Mark asks. In the afternoon light, Mark’s eyes are almost a golden brown.

Renjun blinks. Hadn’t it been sunset already? “Thirty minutes, I’d say,” he replies. “Twenty-five, maybe.” The more he thinks about, the less certain he becomes: already the fragments that he remembers seem to melt away like footprints washed away in the sand.

Mark nods approvingly. “That sounds about right.” He pauses, clasping his hands together before resting them back on his knees. The tremor’s back, almost physically unsettling to look at for too long. Renjun focuses his vision somewhere to the left of Mark’s ear, hoping that he doesn’t notice.

“You were out for around ten minutes, by the way,” Jaemin tells Renjun. “The reason why Mark was so freaked out is because the dose was meant for five minutes.”

“ _Dose_?” Renjun shakes his head, uncomprehending. “Is this some lucid dreaming thing?” He supposes it’s his own fault for signing whatever contract Jaemin handed him.

“Induced shared dreaming,” Mark explains. “Time flows differently when you’re in a dream.”

“You perceive things much more quickly,” Jaemin adds. “Hence time getting all—distorted.”

“But what’s the point?” Renjun asks, amazed. “Why would anyone invent this?” He sees the capacity for wonder, for a shared experience, but technology is never invented to astound. Only blood and money can fund such things.

“That’s the thing,” Mark says. “When the mind is asleep, in the subconscious, it’s a lot more…” Here, he hesitates.

“Vulnerable,” Jaemin cuts in. He’s smiling like knives again, sharp and shiny. “Susceptible, ready to reveal information.”

“And that’s where we come in.” Mark furrows his eyebrows, taking Renjun in. “Are you willing to join our team?”

Renjun’s head is a rush of thoughts, dizzy and frenzied like a waterfall crashing down on the rocks below. “But,” he says, swallowing, “what would I do?”

“You’re the architect,” Mark says. As if that’s supposed to be the answer to all of Renjun’s questions. “You build everything we work upon.”

“I don’t understand,” Renjun replies, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “How—?”

“It’s more intuitive once you’re in dream space,” Jaemin supplies. “Mark, should I or—”

“You do it,” Mark replies. “Best to show different styles, right?”

 

 

 

 

 

Renjun understands what Mark had meant by _different styles_. The city is all sharp angles and shining exteriors, the windows mirrors of the street outside.

“It’s pretty simple,” Jaemin says. “Your mind takes to it pretty easily, just—” here he gestures around in a grand, sweeping motion as if to encompass the entire city— “build.”

It’s more vivid than he’d ever imagined. Renjun makes a bridge, the same one he crosses every morning when he walks to his classes, but slightly twisted. He chooses gold instead of silver, tweaks the bolts, changes the bent—

“Hey, is this something from your memory?” Jaemin asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” Renjun replies, already moving forward to walk across the river.

Jaemin grabs his shoulder, pulling him back. “Don’t do that,” he says, jerking his chin in the direction of the bridge. “See, watch.”

The bridge breaks in half, splitting straight down the middle like the chocolate bars Renjun always shares with Xiaojun. The break seems so clean, so effortlessly easy, that it’s the first time Renjun is reminded that this isn’t _real_.

“Don’t build anything from your memory, ever,” Jaemin says grimly. His hand feels warm against Renjun’s shoulder, and Renjun isn’t sure whether it’s actually comforting or just some sort of placebo effect filled in by his mind.

“Why?” Renjun asks. He pictures a new bridge, now, something completely different—steel arches, a modernistic curve.

“Because,” Jaemin begins, a bitter laugh creeping up on him, “It fucks you up.” Another pause, then: “You begin to forget what’s real and what isn’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Oooh, who’s this?”

Renjun wakes up, blinking blearily to find a pair of brown, curious eyes staring down at him. A couple more blinks and Renjun registers the golden-tan skin, his faded maroon fringe that falls in front of his eyes messily. _Who—?_

“Don’t get so close,” Mark says, tugging the new boy away until he’s at a reasonable distance. “How was it this time, Renjun?”

“Better, I think,” Renjun replies, sitting up in his cot and stretching his arms out as he yawns.

“He’s a quick learner,” Jaemin says. Unlike Renjun, he’s already completely composed after waking up, sitting cross-legged on top of his cot with perfect posture. “I think he’s suited for the job.”

“Oh, so he’s the new architect?” The new boy raises his eyebrows, excited. “God, I was starting to get worried—”

“Well, there’s no need to anymore,” Mark cuts in, hand still clasped around his arm. “Renjun, this is Donghyuck, the bane of my existence—”

“I’m the forger,” Donghyuck interrupts, reaching out to shake Renjun’s hand. “We’ll be working a lot together, I think.”

Mark nods. “You guys will.” He clasps his hands together, looking around the floor. Jaemin’s out of earshot, standing near what appears to be a laboratory, right beside another man. “Alright, I think we’ve got everyone.”

The five of them cluster together by the cots, Renjun still sitting on his bed while Jaemin perches on the edge of the seat beside him. The one person who Renjun hasn’t been introduced to yet sits on the other side of Jaemin, looking over at Renjun with an easy smile.

“I’m Jeno Lee,” he says, reaching over Jaemin’s lap to shake Renjun’s hand. Jaemin bats at the two of them for a couple of moments till they separate. “Jaemin, stop—I prep all of the doses for induced dreaming.”

“Okay, okay, now that we’re all here,” Mark says, “I’ll explain everything.”

Jaemin mutters something under his breath that sound suspiciously like _You’d better_. Renjun leans forward, his whole body thrumming with anticipation like a guitar string.

“We have been tasked with inception,” Mark continues. “Mr. Nakamoto—”

“Inception?” Jaemin interrupts, incredulous. Donghyuck, across from them, has his jaw dropped open in abject shock. “No way. That’s impossible.”

“ _Mr. Nakamoto_ ,” Mark repeats, firm, “will pay very well for the mission. If it works.”

“And how is planting the _beginning of an idea_ in someone else’s head going to _work_?” Donghyuck counters, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “You can never get rid of the source.”

“A dream in a dream,” Mark responds, voice growing in strength and certainty. “It’s been done before, I swear—but this time, we can go another level in. A dream in a dream in a dream.”

Jeno’s shaking his head, disbelieving. “The time-dilation will be _insane_ ,” he says. “You’d have to move fast in the third level. You’d have to…” he trails off, mind clearly working through Mark’s idea, and Renjun sees it: Jeno’s sold.

The others, too, are nodding. “Who’s the target?” Donghyuck asks, propping his chin in his palm to look over at Mark intently.

“Zhong Chenle,” Mark says. “Recent inheritor of the Zhong conglomerate after his father’s death.”

“And the idea we need to plant?” Renjun prompts.

Here, Mark hesitates. “Mr. Nakamoto wants to merge with the Zhong conglomerate and take complete control,” he says. “Apparently Mr. Zhong has not been so forthcoming in negotiation.”

“So Zhong Chenle needs to give up his father’s company,” Renjun says. He can see where this is going, now, bits and pieces of it coming together like the building he had dreamt up.

“Yes.” Mark looks at them all, eyes wide and pleading. “We can do this. It’ll be difficult, but we can.”

Renjun understands, now, why Mark is the leader. He has some undeniable charm, compelling and earnest, that makes them all want to follow. Looking at Mark—taking in the certainty in his eyes—Renjun knows that they can do anything.

 

 

 

 

 

“You aren’t regretting this.”

Jaemin’s on the cot next to Renjun, propped up on one elbow like a swimsuit model to take him in with keen eyes. In his cotton t-shirt and pajamas, Jaemin looks softer, more relaxed. It’s charming. It only makes Renjun more wary of the situation.

“No, I’m not,” Renjun responds. The experience of dreaming had been too exciting to relinquish, too fascinating to walk away from. “But—why did Mark agree to this deal with Mr. Nakamoto?”

Jaemin shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t particularly care,” he replies. His eyes close for a brief moment, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Renjun can’t help but search out the pockets of delicacy in Jaemin’s frame.

“Aren’t you _curious_?” Renjun asks. Using the dreamscape for white-collar espionage was never an application that he anticipated when he built that new world, so dense and lush, with Jaemin.

Jaemin open his eyes and laughs. It’s still the only part of him that makes him seem human, flawed. “I used to ask a lot of questions,” he says. “But I guess I didn’t like the answers I was getting.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you remember what happens when you wake up from a dream?” Mark asks him. They’re walking through the streets, cobblestoned and bumpy. Renjun resists the urge to compare it to the cities he’s visited; no doubt Mark’s creation is an amalgamation of several different places.

Renjun shakes his head. There’s a bright light shining from overhead, like sunlight but bleached to a cold blue-white that feels artificial. Everything is different shades of blue, here, from the easter-egg-colored walls to the serene river in front of them.

“What happens?” Renjun asks, looking up at the sky. There is no sun in sight. “My dreams always end up turning out to be nightmares.”

For the most part, Renjun’s dreams are variations on the same theme: he always wakes up with some fear that he had failed an assignment, or that his professor had started hating him, or some other catastrophe that would never occur in real life.

“A dream ends in a _kick_ ,” Mark replies. “Something so catastrophic or surprising—” here, Mark brings his hands together in a loud _clap_ — “that it shocks your brain into waking up.”

Renjun frowns. The river doesn’t look so serene now; the surface of it bubbles strangely, as if made of magma. “What would be an example of a kick?” he asks.

“You’ll see.” Mark points ahead of them, to where the water continues morph and swell, bubbling up with every second. Renjun realizes, with a dawning sense of horror, that this is a tsunami.

And then—

 _Fuck_ , he’s drenched in water. Renjun shakes his head the way a wet dog would, droplets spraying out like a suburban sprinkler, his eyes screwed shut. When he blinks them open, he realizes that he still doesn’t recognize where he is.

“How was the kick?” Jaemin asks, hands tight around Renjun’s arms as he helps him out of the bathtub. Jaemin hesitates, then pats Renjun’s shoulder before letting go. “A bit startling at first, right?”

“Yeah,” Renjun breathes out. He turns away from Jaemin for a moment, just to take in the details of the room—a pink and fuzzy carpet, a red lamp, and—oh. The sight of Mark asleep, tied up in a chair that hovers above another bathtub, makes Renjun feel even more precarious. “Am I _still_ dreaming?”

Jaemin nods. “Yeah, but you’re in the first level now,” he says. “One kick away from waking up.” He turns to take in their leader along with Renjun. “Now you’ll see Mark wake up.”

Slowly, surely, Jaemin lowers the chair until it barely touches the surface of the water. Then, he releases his grip so that Mark lands in the water with a loud splash. It doesn’t take long for Mark to fully wake up, shaking off the water with a lot more ease than Renjun had had.

“Alright, I think Renjun understands how the levels work,” Mark says, so confident in Renjun’s abilities that he doesn’t even bother to correct him. “Jaemin, let’s wake up.”

Jaemin shrugs. “Fine by me,” he says. He turns to face Renjun, eyes glimmering. “You won’t remember this when you wake up,” Jaemin promises. Then he takes out a gun as swift as lightning, aimed at Renjun’s forehead—

There’s no time for fear, no time for anything at all—

Jaemin fires.

Renjun wakes up gasping, heart rattling in his ribcage like his cellphone on the highest level of vibrate.

Donghyuck makes his way over to the beds, eyes curious. “How was it?” he asks. Beside Renjun, Mark and Jaemin are still asleep.

He blinks. There had been a reason why his heart had been pounding so hard, hadn’t there? But now, looking back on it, Renjun can’t recall anything. There’s just phantom fear aching in his chest like forgotten heartbreak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the next several days, Renjun busies himself with building up the levels. A different person will have to stay behind in each level, but he still creates the worlds. The others have their own jobs to take care of. Jaemin only returns back to their headquarters in the dead of night, stealing in so quietly that Renjun wouldn’t have noticed had he not been wide awake as he stared up at the ceiling. Donghyuck disappears for days on end, on a mission to find out all that he can about those close to Zhong Chenle.

“I’m going to need to test out what you’ve built,” Donghyuck tells him one night, face glowing in sweaty, exhausted excitement. “My job depends a lot on whether I can fit well with the environment.”

Renjun frowns, pausing as he pours out a mug of coffee. “Fit well?” he asks, taking a sip. His tongue burns; it’s too hot. Jaemin, watching him, mouths an _Are you okay?_ silently. Renjun nods in response.

“Yeah,” Donghyuck replies. “You’ll see when we’re under, I swear.”

Renjun hums in agreement.

“Hey, can you pass me some coffee?” Jaemin says, reaching out for the jug and peering inside. “Nevermind, that’s— _way_ too much milk.”

“How do you usually take your coffee?” Renjun asks.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” he says. “It’s, like, the fifth circle of hell—”

“—It tastes good, I swear,” Jaemin protests, mouth curling into a disbelieving laugh.

“If you think diesel fuel tastes good,” Donghyuck mutters under his breath.

Renjun grins at the two of them, and takes another sip of his coffee. It’s finally the right temperature. “I guess we’ll have to find out, then.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What do you think?” Jaemin asks, stretching his arms out with an eager smile. He looks around, taking in the minute details of Renjun’s constructed world—the sleek, shiny metal stools, and the contrasting white tiles. “Isn’t this good?”

“What’s good?” Renjun asks, confused. He runs his hands over the surface of a counter, reveling in the smoothness of it, a sensation wrought directly by his mind.

Jaemin comes closer, leaning in so that Renjun is backed up against the table. “This,” Jaemin whispers, eyes fervent. “Everything.” He reaches out, gentle, and cups against Renjun’s cheek.

Renjun doesn’t dare move an inch, merely returning Jaemin’s gaze with a level-headed stare. His breath catches in his throat as Jaemin moves closer and closer, eyes never straying from Renjun’s lips—

Then Jaemin leans away, just as suddenly, a laugh escaping from his lips. “I’m surprised,” he remarks. “I guessed he felt this way, but I never thought you’d return it.”

When he turns, it is Donghyuck’s face that reflects off of the surface of the nearest table. _Donghyuck._

Renjun’s face burns, shame pumping through his veins in a relentless current. “Is _this_ what you do?” he asks, clenching his hands into fists. The sensation of his fingernails biting into the skin of his palm barely anchors him.

Donghyuck’s fully himself now, no trace of Jaemin’s smile or eyebrows or eyes on his body. He turns back around, smiling ruefully. “I impersonate people,” he says. “Trick the mind into giving up its secrets.”

“Don’t,” Renjun starts, before cutting himself off. “Don’t—”

“Don’t tell Jaemin?” Donghyuck suggests. He hides a smile behind the palm of his hand. “There’s no point in rushing the inevitable, regardless.”

 

 

 

 

 

Donghyuck spends the most time in Renjun’s levels, trying his best to mimic the gait and speech habits of Zhong Chenle’s father and Park Jisung, one of Chenle’s best friends.

“They’re rumored to be more than just friends,” Donghyuck tells him, his voice deep and unfamiliar. “If you know what I mean.” He tries to waggle his eyebrows, and the sight of the expression on Park Jisung’s face sends Renjun into a bout of laughter.

Renjun tries not to think about, well, the thing that he thinks about perhaps the most. Jaemin is the unavoidable all wrapped up in a human, constantly challenging Renjun to confront everything with just his usual presence.

“Can I check out your levels?” Jaemin asks, placing a familiar hand on Renjun’s shoulder. They’re close enough to touch casually like that, but not close enough for Renjun to not feel slightly flustered every time Jaemin comes close. It’s a quick fire, like silver in his veins, bright and shiny and slightly dangerous.

Renjun swallows. “Sure,” he says.

Jaemin remains silent for the most part when they travel along the levels, traversing roads and passing skyscrapers. Sometimes he’ll stop in one spot, eyes wide as he takes in even the smallest designs or the grandest structures.

Renjun swallows when they reach the second level, at the end of everything he has planned so far. He still hasn’t finished the third level yet, though he continues to progress on it from day to day.

“We’re done here,” he says. The ending point is the sea, vast and fathomless. It looks like rippled glass in the light. “So,” he pauses. “What did you think?”

“This is amazing,” Jaemin says, breathless. He turns to Renjun, then shakes his head ruefully. “Damn, I should’ve known when Mark hired you.”

“Yeah?” Renjun asks. He checks Jaemin’s reflection on the nearest surface, just in case; he changed the composition of the floor tiles last night just for this purpose. It’s still Jaemin. They’re in a dream, but at least there’s some semblance of truth in their minds.

“Yeah,” Jaemin confirms. If his smile is a knife, then he’s got Renjun right in the gut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The days pass as they continue to prepare for the mission, to achieve _inception_. Mark begins to warn them of an impending deadline. Jaemin joins Donghyuck in disappearing for days on end, returning in an increasingly more ragged state.

“Where do you go?” Renjun asks once. He’s sitting at the counter, still sketching in the fine details of his plans. Jaemin stands by the sink, splashing his face with cold water as if it’ll kick him back into reality.

Jaemin wipes the water off of his face quickly, eyes frenetic with energy. He looks like an embodiment of electricity. “It’s not important,” he replies, coming over to take in Renjun’s designs. “Not the way _this_ is,” he adds, pointing to Renjun’s sketches.

Renjun looks over at Jaemin. In the muted moonlight, Jaemin glows, almost fluorescent. There’s still a drop of water running down his cheek.

Renjun doesn’t even think about it, just reaches over and brushes his thumb over the curve of Jaemin’s cheek. For a moment, all is still. The moonlight, the darkness, everything floating like it’s just a dream. _Is it?_

Jaemin just looks at him, steady. Eyes intent, but with what _sort_ of intent, Renjun doesn’t know.

“You should get to sleep,” Jaemin says, finally, breaking their silence. He makes every word sound as if it’s weighed down with meaning, gilded in something precious.

Renjun nods. “Sweet dreams,” he replies, almost vacant. He takes in the way Jaemin bites down a smile, that small spark of happiness blooming in his chest. These feelings are inexplicable, nonsensical.

Nothing seems to follow the rules of logic anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

They enter the airplane like they’re attending a funeral, black suits and blank faces. Renjun resists the urge to look over three rows away, where Zhong Chenle sits ensconced in his first class suit, trendy bleach-blonde hair hanging around his face, limp. They’re lucky he flew first class on this flight to Beijing instead of taking his own private jet; Jaemin had something to do with the arrangement of that, but Renjun isn’t quite sure that he wants to know how.

“Are you ready?” Jaemin whispers to him in an undertone. Somewhere in the background, the captain announces that _there are five minutes till takeoff, five minutes until takeoff_.

Renjun nods, hands gripping onto the sides of the seat. He looks out the window, taking in the dull gray sky and the nearby airplanes. Five minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

He only remembers the rest in fragments, bits and pieces of memory that he can never be sure of. But when he closes his eyes, tries to recall, he sees:

 _Rain_. Jeno’s driving the van, wild and haphazard as they try to avoid the armed defenders of Zhong Chenle’s subconscious. Jaemin sits in the front, shooting at anything that moves, and the sound of it is a constant drumbeat in his fluttering pulse. It blends in with the pelting rain, everything flooding in—

 

 

 

 

 

They leave Mark to convince Zhong Chenle to surrender his mind in the second level. Mark’s good with people, charming, all wide-eyed earnestness that still hasn’t faded from years in the job. Still, Chenle’s subconscious does not relent, Jaemin trying his best to fend off every bullet that comes his way. Finally, he drops the gun and turns to Renjun, eyes sharp.

“We need a diversion,” Jaemin says. His hand slides over the back of Renjun’s neck, the touch warm. “Quick, give me a kiss.”

Renjun's eyes widen with surprise for a split second. Regardless, he doesn’t hesitate, _can’t_ hesitate—not with the sound of glass shattering right behind him, with Mark’s hushed voice behind the door that they’re guarding—and steps forward. He leans in, quick—

 

 

 

 

 

 

First level. Jeno finally approaches the bridge, the brakes screeching all the while. Everything is conjoined in a cacophonous storm. Renjun braces as Jeno swerves, suspended in mid-air and ready to hit the water—

 

 

 

 

 

Everything goes so fast, blink it and you’ll miss it. They rush up to the fortress of Chenle’s mind, fending off attackers the entire way.

“You’ll never be enough,” Donghyuck says, disguised as Chenle’s father. His voice trembles with weakness, with emotion, with a truth that has always been a lie. “Just give up.”

Chenle’s face crumples with some unspoken sorrow. He nods, brief. Mark makes eye contact with Renjun and nods. They’re almost done—

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their van crashes into the river below, the equivalent of hitting a ton of cement. First kick, second kick, third kick—

 

 

 

 

 

 

Renjun wakes up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is this it?” Renjun asks. They’re waiting at the airport baggage claim. Renjun doesn’t have anything to pick up, but he stays out of principle, to spend these last couple of minutes with Jaemin.

Jaemin shrugs. “I guess,” he says. He steps forward to wrest his suitcase from the conveyor belt. “Now you can return back to,” Jaemin hesitates, “whatever you were doing before.”

Mark had clasped Renjun’s shoulder as he left for his next flight, promising to stay in touch. Jeno and Donghyuck had enveloped him in hugs before stepping out of the airport.

And, yet, here they both are. Left staring at each other, wordless expectation thick in the air.

It’s too real. It’s _awkward_.

“So, then,” Renjun fumbles, “goodbye?” He rummages through his pockets, pulling out a pen and a months-old receipt. He scrawls his number on the back of the crumpled paper. “Here. Have this, at least.”

Jaemin takes it, smoothing it out as he reads over the digits carefully. Then, he folds it as precisely as possible before storing it in his pocket. “Goodbye, Renjun,” Jaemin says.

The last thing he does before leaving is stepping forward to press a gentle kiss against Renjun’s cheek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gradually, life returns to normal. Renjun will never sleep the same way, but he returns back to his apartment with Xiaojun and feels more like himself with every passing day. No one contacts him, no matter how many times he refreshes his screen or checks his call log. Eventually, he stops looking.

Xiaojun raps his knuckles against Renjun’s door. “Hey, Renjun,” he says. “I think someone’s at the door for you.”

Renjun sighs, mind consumed with the blueprint in front of him. “You _think_?” he calls back. “Who is it?” Too much time has passed for him to get his hopes up.

A pause, then: “Someone named Jaemin Na?”

Renjun stands up so abruptly that he nearly knocks off half of the supplies from his desk. “Jaemin Na?” he replies, already striding forward to leave his bedroom. He runs over to the front door, not even bothering to wait for Xiaojun.

“ _Jaemin Na_?” Renjun repeats to himself, disbelieving. It isn’t true, how could it be, _why_ —

Renjun opens the front door.

Jaemin smiles, a little sheepish. Asking, with that glint in his eyes, as if he doesn’t already know the answer: “Did you miss me?”

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](http://twitter.com/mathmxrk) / [cc](http://curiouscat.me/mathmxrk) / [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/fullmoonjournal) <3
> 
> suddenly im renminist... thanks for reading T___T comments & kudos are really appreciated as well <3


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